Chapter One
London, England—Eighteen months later
Elliot Baker studied the small calling card in his hand. A charming card, it had a colorful array of flowers, with two doves, on one side. The second side read:
Mrs. Gabriel Pennyworth
“You say she is here in the waiting room?” He tapped the card with his finger and regarded his secretary, Mr. Gleason, the man who had been with him ever since he opened his office two years prior. Tall, thin, dressed—as always—in all black, he was the perfect complement to the type of business Elliot conducted.
“Yes, sir. She said she is aware she does not have an appointment, but it is of utmost importance that she see you.” His sniff told him how inappropriate he deemed the woman’s actions.
Elliot stood, rolled his sleeves down, and shrugged into his jacket. “Very well. Send in”—he glanced at the card—“Mrs. Pennyworth.”
He was just settling into his chair when a young, very attractive woman passed through the doorway. As he stood back up, he tried very hard not to notice her full lips, creamy skin, and golden-blond hair, fashioned into a chignon at the back of her head. Her high-necked, well-made black carriage dress did not sport the bustle that so many women had returned to, but gathered in the back, pulling the fabric close against her stomach. The style of the dress would draw any appreciative male’s eyes to her fine form.
Overall, she was of a most attractive countenance, which immediately annoyed him.
Mrs. Pennyworth cleared her throat, reminding him he had been staring. He flushed at being caught gawking, gave her a slight smile, and waved to the chair in front of his desk. “Won’t you please have a seat, Mrs. Pennyworth?”
She sat very primly at the edge of the seat, her delicate black lace-gloved hands resting on the handle of her parasol. “Thank you for seeing me without an appointment, Mr. Baker. I will not take up much of your time.”
He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “How may I be of service, ma’am?”
Her clear green eyes studied him in cool detachment, telling him nothing. “I wish you to investigate an issue on my behalf.”
He leaned back, regarding her once again. No wedding ring visible through the lace glove, a black dress, and asking for his services, which was generally done by a man. A widow. Perhaps a recent one. Tenting his fingers together, he tapped his lip. “Indeed? And what is it you wish me to investigate?”
She glanced off to the side, and a slight flush covered her lovely cheeks. “I am being bedeviled by someone who is making me quite uncomfortable.”
An alarm sounded in his brain, and his well-earned suspicious nature rose to the forefront. Slow down, Elliot. Not every pretty woman is a manipulator.
To give himself time to clear his mind, and accept whatever it was Mrs. Pennyworth was about to tell him without prejudice, he pulled a pad of paper toward him, and dipping his pen in the inkwell, looked up at her. “Please continue.”
She chewed her bottom lip, then taking a deep breath, drawing his eyes to her well-formed bosom, blurted out, “I have been receiving unwanted items on my front doorstep.” She stopped and once more worried her plump bottom lip.
If the woman needed to be prodded every time she made a statement, the interview would take much longer than her initial promise. However, it was apparent she was upset, and having a difficult time of it. Since he rarely had women for clients, he softened a bit, without letting down his guard, and realized how out of her element she must be.
Perhaps the formal atmosphere was hindering her. He replaced the pen in its holder and pushed the pad away. “May I offer you tea, Mrs. Pennyworth?”
She visibly relaxed and nodded. “Yes, that would be quite nice.” She pulled out a fancy lace and linen handkerchief and patted her forehead and upper lip.
Elliot pushed back his chair and walked around the desk to the doorway. “Mr. Gleason, please bring tea for Mrs. Pennyworth and myself.”
He attempted small talk while they waited for the refreshments, but it soon became apparent that whatever had brought Mrs. Pennyworth to his office had a firm grip on her sensibilities, and she merely smiled and nodded distractedly at his comments.
Elliot was greatly relieved when Gleason appeared at the door with a tray of tea things. “Would you care to pour, Mrs. Pennyworth?”
Once they were settled with tea and plates of biscuits on the narrow table in front of the small wood-burning stove, Elliot said, “Please start at the beginning so I may understand what your problem is, and how I can be of service to you.”
Taking a sip of tea, she placed the cup in the saucer and folded her hands in her lap.
“About three weeks ago, I received a bouquet of flowers on my front doorstep. Since I had attended a small gathering the evening before, I assumed a gentleman had sent them over. The odd thing was, it arrived with no card. They were simply left there. Ordinarily, a delivery boy rings the bell and presents them.”
Time to get some facts. “And was Mr. Pennyworth upset by this arrival of flowers?”
She raised her chin. “Mr. Pennyworth passed a year ago.” She took another sip of tea. “I live alone in my own home, with a small staff, a bit north of Hyde Park.”
He made a mental note. Widow. Solid middle-class neighborhood. Her clothes reflected sufficient money and good taste.
“Go on.”
“A few days later there were more flowers, but again, no note.” She stared off into the distance, her voice lowering, her words disjointed. “Days followed with more flowers, a lovely plant, a box of chocolates, and an expensive handkerchief—”
“All with no identifying card?”
She nodded. “Last week, however, I received a single black rose, a blank card attached, with what appeared to be a drop of blood on it.” She patted her upper lip with her handkerchief once more and looked directly into his eyes. “This morning there was a dead bird on the steps.” She chewed her lips and shivered. “With a knife through its poor little body.”
What he had begun to think was merely a man too shy to approach an attractive woman, swiftly changed to something more sinister. “And still no note?”
She shook her head. “None.”
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Have you notified the Metropolitan Police?”
“Yes. I just came from there. They dismissed my concerns. The man at the desk suggested I had an admirer, whose attentions I should be enjoying.”
He shook his head in disgust. “And the bird? What did he make of that?”
“That it was merely some rough youths playing a trick. He then informed me that unless I lived in Whitechapel and plied my trade on the street”—she winced—“they had no time for me since they are busy with that horrible man committing all those murders of prostitutes.”
Bloody hell of a way for an officer of the law to speak to a woman. “Yes, the one the newspapers have given the moniker ‘Jack the Ripper’.”
She swallowed visibly and took another sip of tea, her hand shaking slightly. “I don’t know what to do. I have not reached the point where I am afraid to leave my home, but I must admit to having twinges of fear each time I open the front door.”
“Do you mind if I take some notes?”
“Not at all.” Her eyes followed him as he rose and retrieved the pen and pad from his desk. “Do you think you can help me, Mr. Baker?”
Prior to the incident with the woman Annabelle, that had led to his resignation from Scotland Yard, he would not have hesitated to help a woman in need. However, time and experience had taught him to go carefully with pretty women. Even though he’d tried many times to tell himself all women were not like Annabelle, he was cautious in his answer. “I am not sure. What is it, exactly, you wish me to do?”
“Find out who is doing this, and stop these things from coming to my front door.” Her voice rose, and her face flushed. “I apologize for shouting, but I am quite stressed.”
He looked down at the pad to give the poor woman a moment to compose herself. “Tell me, is there a pattern with the arrival of these items? For example, you mentioned the first flowers arrived the morning after you had attended an event. Is that true for the other packages? Or maybe after a specific type of event you attend on a regular basis? On certain days of the week, perhaps?”
“Yes. I have noticed they mostly arrive the morning after I have been to a social event. However, there have been times when nothing came the morning after.”
“Which means your tormentor might not have been at that event.”
“I thought of that and tried to remember who was not there, but so many of the events have people coming and going all night, it is hard to keep track.”
He nodded and made some notes. “Any particular type of event that did not have a package left the next morning? For example, the theater, a dinner party, garden party, etc.?”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t believe so.”
“Have you ever had a package arrive the morning after you’ve had an evening alone, at home?”
She considered for a minute. “No. I don’t believe so.”
Elliot continued to look down at the pad. “Is there a gentleman who has offered his attentions that you have spurned?”
Her body stiffened. “I am just coming out of mourning, Mr. Baker. Any gentleman who offered his attentions has been spurned.”
He nodded. Either she was a good actress, or she lived by a decent moral code. Until he knew her better, he opted for actress. “And yet you attend social events.”
If she saw any condemnation in his words, she didn’t show it. “Since I recently passed the anniversary of Mr. Pennyworth’s death, I have been accepting invitations, but only those of a more sedate nature. Smaller assemblies, no large balls or gatherings.”
“And those in your circle of friends and acquaintances would be aware of your situation? Of the fact that you are coming out of mourning?”
“Of course.”
Still reluctant to take on Mrs. Pennyworth’s case, he asked, “Have you no men in your family to champion you?”
He did not imagine her miniscule change in demeanor. The slight tension in her body, the hesitation, as if considering her words carefully. What is she hiding?
“I am an only child, with no male relatives.”
Leaning back, he regarded her. If he were to help this poor frazzled woman, he would need to spend time with her, which he did not relish. Once burned, and all that.
“May I ask what brought you to my door?”
“The constable at the Metropolitan Police. He said you were a former Inspector.”
“Ah, yes.”
…
Charlotte attempted to calm herself, so Mr. Baker wouldn’t think she was a swooning, hysterical female. When she had first decided to take the constable’s suggestion and visit with Mr. Baker, she had been expecting to meet a middle-aged paunchy man, with thinning hair, beady eyes, and thick spectacles.
Instead, she found the private investigator to be young, handsome, and someone who did not seem to confine himself to sitting behind a desk. He filled out his coat quite well, and the peek she’d gotten of his well-formed legs bore witness to time spent in active pursuits. His deep-blue eyes seemed to look right into her soul. A lock of light-brown hair fell over his broad forehead, which he kept pushing back with his fingers. To no avail.
However, the last thing she needed was to develop a fancy for a man. She was still angry at Gabriel for risking his life in that stupid carriage race. She’d begged him not to go. Cocksure, as usual, he’d kissed her goodbye and tweaked her nose, telling her she worried too much.
That was the last time she’d seen him alive. He’d been thrown from the carriage, landing in such a way that he’d broken his neck. Rage, tears, and depression had taken over her life for months.
After her narrow escape from Lord Barton, she’d only been in London and at her new situation at the bank for a few weeks when Gabriel Pennyworth had appeared one morning and begun to take notice of her. A well-placed solicitor and the third son of a viscount, he had not been exactly handsome but had possessed a personality that charmed women wherever he went.
Including her.
Only a month after their marriage, all her hopes for a happy life with a husband, a comfortable home, and children, had vanished on a rainy Saturday morning at Hyde Park. The arrival of her menses a week later had added to her sorrow for the child who was not to be.
The owner of a sizeable trust fund from his grandparents, Gabriel had left her with a lovely townhouse, along with a nice income that would last the rest of her life.
One would think, after her experience with Lord Barton, she would realize no man could be trusted. Gabriel had promised to love, honor, and cherish her. What sort of honor was risking your neck in a carriage race with a group of ninnyhammers? She intended to take care of herself from now on, which was why it rankled to have to ask Mr. Baker for help.
“Are you planning any social events in the near future?” Mr. Baker’s deep voice cut into her musing.
“I have accepted an invitation to a poetry reading at Mrs. Bertha Ainsley’s home tomorrow evening.”
Mr. Baker pulled a face, which piqued her curiosity. “Why do you ask?”
“Right now, it appears your persecutor is a member of your social circle. The best way for me to uncover this culprit is to attend the events where you will be. Since I do not travel in your circles, I will need to accompany you as your escort. Although I abhor poetry, would it be difficult to obtain an additional invitation to this affair? Also to any others you will be attending?”
She pursed her lips, mentally reviewing the various occasions on her social calendar. “No, I do not believe it will be a problem.”
He placed his pen back into its holder on the desk and stood. “Excellent. I will call for you at…”
Startled at his abrupt change of demeanor, she hesitated. “Oh, the reading begins at eight o’clock, so I would think seven-thirty or so shall do it.”
“Please give your direction to Mr. Gleason as you leave.”
She scrambled to gather her things at being so summarily dismissed. “But…we haven’t discussed your fee. Or whether you think you can assist.”
“Madam, if I could not assist in the search for this man, I would not be foisting my company upon you. As far as my fee, I will charge you less than you expected, yet more than you had hoped.” He offered a smile, enough for her to realize the man had a smile that should be declared illegal. White even teeth, full lips, and small lines alongside his mouth that gave him a rakish look. None of which I need note.
He clutched her elbow and walked her to the door of his office. “Don’t forget to leave your information with Mr. Gleason.”
Her head spinning with the energy emanating from Mr. Baker, she nodded and made her way to the front office where she gave the needed information to the secretary. Feeling hopeful, she left the building, took a deep breath, and was immediately overtaken with a spasm of coughing from the ever-present coal dust in the air.
She headed to the hansom cab she’d arrived in, since her coachman, Bones, had developed an ague, and she had insisted he stay abed.
Thinking ahead to tomorrow’s poetry reading and being accompanied, of all people, by a private investigator, she let herself into her house and headed straight for the kitchen. Another cup of tea would be just the thing to settle her nerves and help her decide what to wear. Not that it made a whit of difference. This was just another social event.
…
Ensconced in a safe place, it was easy for M to watch the woman climb out of the rented equipage and hurry into her snug little house. Why was she not using her own carriage? Had she found it necessary to let the coachman go? To sell the carriage and pair? That would never do for sweet Anne.
Anne. Now going by the name of Charlotte. M sighed at her trickery.
Perhaps the next gift should be one of value, so she could sell it if she needed the funds. How comforting it would be to take care of her again. To watch her lovely face light up with pleasure at the little gifts. To remind her to wear a pelisse when it was chilly outside, and to be sure to eat breakfast since she tended to start her day with only a cup of chocolate.
Anne was such a delicate little thing and had brought great happiness to their life together. Except when she hadn’t. Memories returned of when it had been necessary to punish her. That was why other, more unpleasant, gifts had been left on her doorstep. The bloodied rose and dead bird would not have made her face light up with joy. Things that would make her sweet breath catch, and her delicate hand tremble. Reminders that she was being watched.
Turning away, the fog swirled around, enshrouding M on the short walk home. The wind picked up, and the fall weather with the abundance of colorful leaves, that Anne loved so much, took away some of the heaviness at her absence.
Tomorrow night would be another chance to gaze upon her, would even, perhaps, present the opportunity to speak with her. A smile burst forth at how Anne had failed to recognize her lover. M knew her and would always know her, no matter where she ran and hid.
Upon M’s arrival home, Mrs. Gearing, the neighbor next door, attempted to begin a conversation. There was no time for Mrs. Gearing. Preparations had to be made for tomorrow night’s poetry reading and seeing beloved Anne once more.